Oliver radioed the chief and Officer Benny Marx, the crime scene specialist.
Under the illumination of a bank of portable high-wattage lights, Officer Marx found blood spatter, too. Not a lot of blood had been spilled, but enough to dot the sidewalk that bordered the parking area and several leaves on the bushes near where the glasses lay. Officer Marx should have no trouble collecting samples to be compared with specimens taken from Cardwell’s body.
The gold wire frame glasses were photographed in place and then carefully bagged.
“This is where he got it,” Oliver told Ron. “No doubt about it. This white guy at the back of the church followed him in, and then he ambushed him when he came out. Cardwell probably parked his car about where I put my unit, and maybe when he went to open his door, bang. Killer pops him a good one to the back of the head, and Cardwell’s glasses go flying. It’s almost dark and the perp has his plans to crucify the man so he doesn’t take the time to get down on his hands and knees to find the glasses he knocked off.”
The deputy chief looked to see how the scenario played out for his boss.
“Pastor Brantley said his vision was pretty bad, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s got cataracts he’s getting fixed next week. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing with what happened out here in the parking lot. I’m with you on that. But what I was thinking, this
white
man he saw, it might have been a real light-skinned black guy.”
Oliver’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” Ron said, and seeing what was plain on the deputy chief’s face, he added, “and I’m not subscribing to the Klan Weekly again, either. Remind me to tell you tomorrow about a guy named Didi DuPree.”
“Tomorrow? What about right now?”
The chief held up the plastic evidence bag containing the gold wire-frame glasses.
“It’s my turn to talk to Mahalia Cardwell. She should be able to identify these for us.”
Chapter 27
Ron called Mahalia Cardwell’s suite from the lobby of the Hyatt. He invited her down to have a cup of tea with him. He told the old lady that they might have a lead in her grandson’s killing, and he needed her help pursuing it.
She agreed to join him, but said it would take her ten minutes to get ready. The chief buttonholed the assistant manager and told him he could use his assistance. Two minutes later, Ron slipped into the hotel restaurant, where he’d meet Mahalia Cardwell, through the kitchen entrance. He stepped directly to a table that had just been screened off by the restaurant staff from the rest of the dining area. This had been accomplished by repositioning several large potted plants.
Ron knew that if people hadn’t been out on the town this evening because they were anxious about the mountain lion attacks, they wouldn’t be going out tonight, either. That meant the large media contingent lodged at the Hyatt was most likely dining and drinking, rather than sitting in their rooms studying the offerings of the Gideons. He didn’t want to be seen talking to Mahalia Cardwell; he certainly didn’t want the snoops from the press to see the glasses they’d found.
The chief instinctively felt Isaac Cardwell’s killer was still in town, but that certainly didn’t mean he couldn’t be scared off if the media alerted him that the cops were closing in. He probably should have just talked to the old lady in her suite, but with his reputation he was leery of being alone with Mahalia Cardwell in a private setting. The old lady didn’t like him; she’d made that plain. He did want to afford her the opportunity to fling some more mud on him if he made her really angry.
A few minutes later, Mahalia Cardwell appeared, also through the kitchen door. Ron’s strategy would have worked neatly except for one thing. The old lady had brought Ben Dexter with her.
The chief stood, careful to conceal the evidence bag with his body.
“Making me come through the kitchen like that,” Mahalia Cardwell complained, “I thought I was going to have to start earning my keep.”
“I believe the mayor told you that your stay is on him,” Ron replied.
“And if it wasn’t, I’d be happy to cover it,” Dexter said with a smile. “Good evening, Chief Ketchum. I was interviewing Mrs. Cardwell when you called, and she invited me to come along. I didn’t know, however, we’d have the pleasure of engaging in your little subterfuge.” He gestured at the wall of potted plants. “Is all this to spare you from the prying eyes of my colleagues?”
Dexter was only partially successful in masking the appearance of how vastly amused he was. Ron wanted to pistol-whip the sonofabitch. But he knew some wishes were never to be granted. So he ignored the reporter.
“Mrs. Cardwell, I’m sorry if I’ve called on you at a bad time. And I meant no offense by asking you to walk through the kitchen. The information I have for you is of a very sensitive nature, and has to be kept confidential. Perhaps you could call me tomorrow when you have the time to speak privately.”
Mahalia Cardwell’s eyes were shrewd. “You’re not going talk to me in front of Mr. Dexter?”
“No, I’m not.”
She turned to Dexter, and she was succinct. “Please leave us.”
For just that one instant, Ron could have kissed Mahalia Cardwell. The way Dexter’s doggy little smirk turned to ashes was a memory that he would cherish for the rest of his life.
“But we have an
agreement,”
the reporter asserted.
“Not now.” The old lady seated herself, symbolizing her change of allegiance.
That left the two men on their feet, but Dexter didn’t have a leg to stand on. He saw the hard expression on Ron’s face and knew it would be counterproductive, at a minimum, to continue the debate. He tried killing both the chief and the old lady with a look. When that didn’t work, he turned on his heel and stormed off.
A waiter came and took their order for tea and, at Ron’s request, summoned the maitre d’. Ron asked that his meeting with Mrs. Cardwell be kept free of eavesdropping from the press, and the kitchen and serving staff should be alerted that reporters and/or photographers might try to eavesdrop. The chief was assured that he’d have complete privacy.
After they were served and the waiter had gone, Ron handed Mahalia Cardwell the evidence bag. He said, “Please don’t open the bag, but will you please look at these glasses and tell me if they belonged to your grandson?”
The old lady took the bag wordlessly, and the grief brought by recognition softened her stern features. She turned the glasses to look at them from several angles, as if she were remembering the face on which they’d once rested. Then she handed the bag back and nodded.
“They’re my baby’s.”
She dried the tears that were beginning to well in her eyes. Ron allowed her a moment of silence and she regained her composure — and her usual fierce visage.
“Mrs. Cardwell,” Ron said, “it’s very important to the success of this investigation that you not mention the specifics of anything I show you or repeat to the press anything we talk about. If you do so, the killer may run.”
“Where’s Jimmy Thunder going to run to?” she demanded. “Everybody all over this country knows his face.”
Ron rubbed his chin as he met Mahalia Cardwell’s harsh gaze. “Mrs. Cardwell, I will tell you that I consider Reverend Thunder a suspect in the killing of his son.”
“Suspect? He
did
it.”
Ron paused to look for the right reply.
“Your heart may tell you that. That might be what you want to see proved. But I have to look for evidence, and follow wherever it may lead. That’s the only way I can do my job. That’s the only way you’ll ever get the justice you want.”
“Oh, I’ll have my justice, Mr. Chief of Police. Either you’ll give it to me or God will.”
That turned Ron to the other topic he wanted to discuss.
“Mrs. Cardwell, did you spend anytime outside your suite today? Have you walked around town?”
“I can’t go outside without all those people sticking their cameras in my face. I even have my meals sent in. That’s why I was talking to Mr Dexter. I recognized him from TV. I figured if I talk to him the others will leave me alone.”
“Have you watched the news?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know about the two mountain lion attacks?”
“I heard about that.”
“Do you know that attempts are being made to link those attacks to what people are calling your curse on the town of Goldstrike?”
“I saw Dexter asking your mayor about it. He said he don’t believe it.”
“I don’t either. But I have reason to think an increasing number of people in town are finding the idea credible.”
“Must mean some folks have themselves guilty consciences.”
“What it means,” Ron said bluntly, “is that your words could be leading to an increasingly dangerous situation. One that could cause trouble in which innocent people might get hurt.”
Mahalia Cardwell was unmoved.
“At least you didn’t say
my
people. Colored folks. I’ve seen one or two around here. And don’t you talk to me about innocent, either. Never has a child been born that’s more innocent than my baby was.”
Ron changed directions, but kept the tone in his voice as hard as the old lady’s.
“Okay. You’re not worried about anyone else, white or black. All you want is your grandson’s killer.”
“That’s just about right. Makes me as mean as anybody else, doesn’t it? Were you expecting better?” Mahalia Cardwell jutted her jaw defiantly.
“Maybe I was, from the woman who said she’d raised such a good man.” Ron saw his remark cut Mahalia Cardwell deeply, but right then he didn’t give a damn. “Here’s something for you to think about. I’ve got a small police department. We already have our hands full. We get any more problems, it’s going to be a drag on our efforts to catch Isaac’s killer. Maybe your
curse
will turn around and bite you. You keep that in mind.”
But letting his temper get the better of him was a mistake. Mahalia Cardwell got up and left in a bigger huff than Ben Dexter had.
Ron didn’t think it would do a whole lot of good to chase after her and ask her to recant her statement calling down the wrath of God on Goldstrike.
She’d probably repeat it, with embellishments, to the delight of the lurking media.
Chapter 28
When the chief got back to his office, he found Corrie Knox asleep in his chair. She had her feet up on his desk, and sneakers on her feet. As much as he liked basketball, he wasn’t in the mood to play right now.
Not even with her.
He stepped around his desk and was about to jostle her shoulder when he saw the sheet of paper on his desk. It was covered with the writing of a precise feminine hand. When he saw the subject matter, he knew the slumbering Warden Knox was the author.
Safety Tips Regarding Mountain Lions
• Never hike alone.
• Always carry a sturdy branch or walking stick.
• Leave your pets at home.
• Always clean up after cooking outdoors.
• Always store food away from tent.
• Always keep small children close at hand.
• Pick up children immediately if you see a lion.
• Never move toward a lion.
• Never run.
• Hold your position or back off slowly.
• Never turn your back or crouch.
• Make yourself look as big as possible.
• Be threatening: Wave arms, shout, throw sticks and stones.
• If all else fails, fight back with your fists and feet.
Fight back with your fists?
Ron had to wonder about that one. He’d have to ask Warden Knox if mountain lions were known for having glass jaws. He looked at her and thought once again what a terrific looking woman she was. Not beautiful or even pretty. She had too much character, too much strength for either of those labels to apply. But she had a face you’d never get tired of looking at. At least, he wouldn’t.
Just then her eyes fluttered open.
She held his gaze and said, “I fall asleep in your office, I guess you’ve got a right to stare. You come to any conclusions?”
“I can’t decide if you look twelve or thirteen.”
She laughed, a surprisingly deep sound that seem to come from all the way down in her belly. “Oh, no. I’m
real
old. In fact, I’ve been worried about the birthday I’ve got coming up.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Really. Next one’s the big three-O.” She waggled her feet. “Like the shoes?”
“Too clean. They need to be stepped on some. But I don’t have the time right now.”
“That’s okay. I don’t have the energy. Spending all day hunting, and being very, very careful about it, is pretty damn tiring. I barely had the reserves to buy the shoes.”
Ron nodded toward her tip sheet. “It’s really a good idea to slug a mountain lion?”
Corrie Knox put her feet down on the floor. “Beats yelling, ‘Mercy me.’ Of course, like any other fight, it helps to get in the first punch. A good shot to the schnozz might actually discourage a cat if it’s not too hungry or otherwise has a burr up his ass. A good bash from a stick or a beaning from a rock is better, though. You get less torn up.”
She stood up and yawned and stretched.
“Needless to say, Tucker and I didn’t find the bastard yet. So, I thought you might want to distribute these safety tips. They’re pretty standard stuff, but the public is woefully ignorant.”
Ron considered the suggestion. “Yeah, it’s probably a good idea. I’ll get the mayor’s office busy on it in the morning.” In response to another jaw-cracking yawn from Corrie, Ron asked, “You want me to give you a ride back to your room? So you don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”
“Well, that’s another thing I wanted to mention.”
“What?”
“I let Tucker Marsden have my room, and I can’t stay there with him because … well, we were together once upon a time, and after we weren’t any longer, it took us a long while to put a working relationship back together. So I was wondering …”
“Yeah, it’s okay. You were right. Last time, I hardly knew you were there.”
Corrie Knox smiled sleepily and said, “Oh, I can make my presence known, if you want me to.”
Ron dodged the implicit offer with a counterproposal, to take Corrie to dinner. But she said she was too tired; she wouldn’t want her face to fall in the mashed potatoes. She suggested they go back to his cabin and just have some munchies on his front porch. The chief followed Warden Knox as she drove her GMC 4x4 back to his place. He stayed alert to her driving, ready to honk his horn if it looked like she’d fallen asleep at the wheel and was about to drift off the road. But they made it without mishap.
After they arrived, Corrie opted for a peanut butter and raspberry preserves sandwich on rye and a glass of skim milk. Ron went with a Foster’s lager, a dozen slices of sharp cheddar and a handful of hard pretzels from Hanover, PA.
Like Clay Steadman’s place, though on a far more modest scale, Ron’s cabin sat on a rise and overlooked the town and the lake. Behind the cabin loomed tree covered slopes that topped out at eight to ten thousand feet above sea level. Above the mountaintops, in a jet black sky, every star in the northern hemisphere tried to outshine all the others.
“Pretty nice place you got here,” Corrie said.
“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “It’s not bad for public housing.”
“You don’t own it?”
He shook his head. “Town does. I pay a nominal rent, which, if I stay on the job 10 years, can be converted to a down payment and applied to a purchase price that was set when I moved in.”
“Pretty sweet deal.” Corrie took a bite of her sandwich and washed it down with a slosh of milk. Ron sipped his beer, and for the next several minutes they ate quietly and listened to the sounds of the night.
“I talked to Mahalia Cardwell tonight,” Ron said finally. “She’s the grandmother of the man who was killed. I told her it would be helpful if she made a public statement saying the mountain lion attacks had nothing to do with her wanting to see her grandson’s killer caught.”
“Did she agree?”
Ron shook his head. “I don’t know if she’s just being perverse. Or if she thinks it will make somebody snitch. Or —”
“Wait a minute,” Corrie said. “Isn’t there already a $100,000 reward? If somebody had knowledge of the crime, wouldn’t
that
make him come forward?”
“That’s the carrot; Mrs. Cardwell seems to prefer the stick. She also seems to think that causing an uproar will motivate me in some way she’d like to see.” Ron turned to look at Corrie in time to see her licking peanut butter off a finger. “Do you think there’s any chance this cat might just move on?”
“I don’t know. Its behavior is already abnormal. It might move on, or it might stay right here and go back to eating its usual prey. I don’t see that second possibility happening, though.”
“Why not?” Ron asked.
Corrie explained her theory that the cat was getting old, losing its ability to run down and kill its usual prey. She went on, “Tucker and I were talking today, wondering if people would stand for anything less than nailing this animal’s hide up in your Muni Complex. Seems to me if this lion just moved on and we don’t kill him, people could never rest easy around here.”
Ron said, “That’s probably true. But I think if that were to happen, people would want Mahalia Cardwell’s hide, thinking she brought all this trouble on them in the first place. And because Mahalia Cardwell is black it could spill over into an ugly racial situation.”
“I didn’t know you had many minorities up here.”
“The year round population of the town’s about twelve thousand. Perhaps ten percent are minorities. Part time residents and visitors might add another five hundred minorities at any given time. Before last Friday, I wouldn’t have thought anybody had any reason to worry about skin color. But then Isaac Cardwell got nailed to a tree, and I got a chance to read some local hate mail. Now,
I’m
worried.”
Corrie had finished her sandwich and she got up. “Want another beer?” she asked.
Ron shook his head, just gave her his empty bottle. She went inside and came back a minute later with her feet bare. She pulled her chair closer to Ron’s and put her feet up on the porch rail.
“If I fall asleep, just throw a blanket over me, will you?” she asked.
“If that’s what you want.”
“Well, you could carry me inside. But I have to warn you, I go one fifty.”
“I think I can manage.”
She gave his upper arm a squeeze and waggled her eyebrows. Then she laughed her deep laugh again but this time it had a nervous edge, and Ron thought if the light were better he’d have seen her blush.
“Okay, back to business,” she said. “The best way to battle superstition is with, what else, education. It seems to me your town could use a brief history lesson and a short lecture on wildlife biology.”
“You going to provide them?” Ron wanted to know.
“I could write the scripts, but I think a local authority should present them.” She grinned at him mischievously. “How about you doing it?”
“How about the mayor? He’s got his own daily TV show.”
“Okay. He’d be good, too.”
“And what would he say?”
“Well, he could say how for most of our history the population in the West was relatively small, and what people we did have were allowed to slaughter the wildlife at will. But we all know how crowded California is now. And in 1990, the people of this state, in their wisdom, passed Prop 117. Which made mountain lions a protected species. You protect a species and — barring environmental degradation — it will flourish.
“So, here we are. More and more people are competing for land with more and more mountain lions. Even with Prop 117, there’s no question people will prevail, but the wild beasts will have their moments. More and more of them, in fact.”
“So you don’t worry about job security much?”
“Hardly at all. Unless something changes, the number of attacks on people will increase.”
“This is
good
news?” Ron asked.
“No, but it’s the kind of news people can understand. Show them the data, and they’ll see the results are perfectly natural and predictable. No hocus-pocus to the situation at all.”
“What about the biology?”
“Well, I can jot a few things down about the effects of feline leukemia and other diseases, what might happen if a cat loses an eye or becomes lame, how even predators lose their teeth, and how they adapt to that.”
“How do they?” Ron inquired.
“Mostly by going after smaller game, and when even that gets to be too much, by starving to death. What I’m getting at is if you give people the facts then seemingly aberrant behavior becomes more comprehensible. Reasonable precautions can be taken.”
“And if people don’t want to be reasonable?”
Corrie frowned and thought for a minute. “Then we go one of two ways.”
“Yeah?”
“One, we offer anyone who believes in the curse a little mountain lion doll and a pin.”
Ron laughed. “Voodoo?”
“Sure. Fight one superstition with another. Or with humor. However they take it.”
“And number two?”
“We find the sucker and nail his hide to a wall.” Corrie stood up and stretched. “I’ve got to get to bed. And don’t bother carrying me.”
“No?”
“No. I wouldn’t want you to say you sprained your back or something. Give you another dodge to get out of that basketball game.”
Ten minutes later, Corrie was asleep, and Ron had showered and lay in his own bed. He felt better, at least about Ms. Knox. He sensed not only was their attraction mutual but so was their nervousness. It reassured him that she had doubts, too.
He was just about to turn out the light when his phone rang. He picked it up on the first ring and still had time to run through a list of possibilities of who might be calling: Sergeant Stanley, Oliver, Clay Steadman, Leilani . . .
“Hello, Ronny. You there, Son?”
His father. Walter Ketchum. The
unrepentant
bigot.
“Yeah, Dad. I’m here.”
Ron and his father had been estranged for more than thirty years, from the time Walter Ketchum had beaten DeWayne Michaels half to death until the time Ron used his unfortunate upbringing to defend himself in the wrongful death suit brought by Marcus Martin on behalf of the family of the late Sharrod Carter.
Ron had agreed when his lawyer, Jack Hobart, suggested using the twist on the disadvantaged youth defense. He knew immediately, of course, that this would be a slap in his father’s face, but he didn’t care. At that time, he occasionally had trouble even remembering what his father looked like. It bothered Ron only a little when Jack told him they’d have to subpoena his father to corroborate that Walter was, in fact, the cracker sonofabitch they made him out to be.
But what Ron hadn’t expected in the least, could never have imagined in a million years, was that the trial would lead to a grudging peace between the two of them, if not an outright reconciliation.